


Last Night

by Daphne_Dark



Series: Surpassing The Love Of Women [3]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, Fellatio, Friendship/Love, Gay Sex, M/M, Non-canonical elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Dark/pseuds/Daphne_Dark
Summary: ... friendship, love, longing, ending - and grieving...





	1. Wife And Kids

The Oberstgruppenführer walked in the door of the apartment. Uncharacteristically, he laid his coat and hat on the hall table without putting them away as he normally did. 

He’d been unsettled all the way home. After Erich left his office, he’d finished his paperwork, called for the car… and all the way home fretted about what he had done. About how he would face Helen. About how he had agreed to meet Erich later. His head started pounding…

John walked slowly through the apartment, calling the girls. If he was to normalize his life by playing the part of loving father and husband, maybe he could start with the father part.

Jennifer and Amy came out to hug him, and tell him all about their day at school. He asked about what they learned, and was thrilled when Jennifer told him she had an A+ in pre-Algebra - the only A+ in the class. 

“Our young mathemetician,” said a woman’s voice. He looked up and saw Helen, smiling. “But don’t you still have a little homework? And your father hasn’t had his dinner…”

With a couple grumbles the girls went back to their rooms. Helen’s face shifted from its warm smile to something neutral, non-committal. “Bridget went home, but we kept a plate warm for you in the kitchen. Swiss steak.” 

She went back to the bedroom and John followed her. 

“Helen, won’t you give me a kiss?” 

“Oh, of course, dear.” She pressed her lips to him, rather absent-mindedly at first, then a little harder. John wrapped his arms around her; she was his wife, and he did want her - everything else notwithstanding. He started embracing…

She broke away, with a bit of confusion on her face. “I… that is…”

The pause was deadly. John felt nervous; did his betrayal show? He’d heard of wives smelling “the other woman” on their husbands; did he smell different after his encounter? 

“I love you, John but I…” she looked down, “I don’t know if I’m ready to…”

He swallowed hard. Out of nervousness he picked up an item from her vanity. “Is this a new scarf, dear? The blue just matches your eyes.”

“Oh, isn’t is pretty? It’s Lucy’s, but she told me to have it.”

John’s mouth twisted. Lucy was a malcontent, and he was afraid that she would only make Helen worse.

“You should give it back to her; I’m sure we can afford a new scarf.” 

She slammed her hand on the nightstand. “I won’t be told what to do, like a child!” John looked at her. “You’re always bossing me, telling me not to go to the old neighborhood, telling me who you want me to see and not see. I miss our neighbors and it’s the only connection I have with, with… “ she started sobbing, “… anyway, Lucy is my friend. Why can’t I accept a gift from a friend? If you weren’t in the office all the time, maybe you’d know what having a friend means!” 

That stung. Nevertheless, John went to her, to try and hold her. She waved him off, and sat on the bed, wiping her eyes with kleenex, turning her head away.

John folded the scarf, putting it back on the vanity. “You’re right, Helen. I don’t mean to keep you from your friends. I never have.” He looked at her and sighed. “I won’t bother you tonight. There’s a special assignment tonight; it came up suddenly. Probably I shouldn’t have come home, but… I wanted to see the girls. I’ll go eat my dinner and get out of your hair.”


	2. Erich's Apartment

John let himself into Erich’s apartment. He shrugged and loosened his shoulders several times, glad to be away from the penthouse. Even if Thomas were still alive and all were well with himself and Helen, he would still have hated the new apartment. Damn goldfish bowl…

Somehow, though, Erich’s apartment was cosier. The apartment was oriented differently, so that instead of the grand view of the GNR headquarters, the smaller windows looked down, almost gently, at Central Park (or _der_ _Reichzentrum Park_, as it was now known). John looked at the green expanse, unaware that he was smiling.

John walked to the fridge and got a beer. Erich scoured New York to find a liquor store that stocked Heileman’s Old Style from back in the Midwest and stocked his fridge with it.

“You like your Old Style too much,” John had joked with his aide. “Is that the beginning of a beer belly?”

“Oh, I’m keeping trim enough for the fitness tests, “ Erich had said, handing John one of the frosty cans. “Watch yer own belly …” he teased, tentatively goosing his boss in a ticklish area, then turning on sports.

Remembering, John turned on the TV tonight, settling onto the sofa. He watched the soccer players dawdle across the field. He took in a sharp breath, thinking back to of all the informal, jokey touches before – ribbings and shoulder rubs and mock arm-wrestlings. John swallowed, yearning for touch - these unplanned guyish ones as much as the surprising passions from earlier this evening.

According to his wristwatch, Erich would be starting his meeting with Joe now. John idly flipped through TV channels, bored with soccer. His cock stirred unthinkingly and he returning to the sofa. He picked up and idly paged through a book of German medieval poetry he’d lent Erich: _Parzival; die Hildebrandeslied; die Nibelungenslied_. Several lyrics from the _Minnesängers_.

As American Reich played out, John thought of possibly reading some of the _minnelieder_ or parts of _die Hildebrandeslied_ to Erich (when he was in school, John prided himself on his skill at recitation in class.) Uniformed figures from the cop show interrupted his reverie and he turned it off. Bridget’s swiss steak was not setting well, so John stretched out on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parzival, etc., are various Romantic works from the German Medieval era. Minnesängers are singers in the "courtly love" tradition; minnelieder being their songs.


	3. How Will We Manage?

“How will we manage it?” he thought. John ruched about uncomfortably. Perhaps the uniforms on the show brought it to mind; John knew that he and Erich were playing a dangerous game. But not an unknown one. Ernst Röhm was long since dead, but those proclivities were alive and well.

John had been to Berlin enough – had been invited to (and refused) late evenings at Cabarets often enough – to know that, with the exception of Himmler (himself a womanizer), the High Command was perfectly willing to turn a blind eye to any perversion, provided one were discreet.

Discreet? He and Erich were more than discreet. Neither of them were decadent; John was sure of that. Erich was too good, too wholesome, to get caught up with gigolos and pretty boys. No, poor Erich simply had some quirk in him that kept him from liking girls. His love was true and noble, albeit somewhat off-course.

John huffed a bitter laugh. The Reich, in making females into little more than breeders and homemakers, _did_ turn out a rattle-headed lot. Whatever problems he and Helen had, whatever else might be tangling his wife up in knots, at least he had fallen in love with an intelligent, capable, interesting, beautiful woman.

Perhaps he should ask Helen if one of her friends might suit Erich, at least for companionship. Perhaps he should have thought of this before. Maybe Lucy and Erich could be friends. John laughed at the thought. The four of them playing bridge. The four of them having a weekend at a beach house in the Hamptons. The four of them at a square dance – change yer pardners, do-si-do!

John rubbed his aching tummy. What a mess! He didn’t want men; he wanted Erich… for himself. Just as he wanted Helen for himself, even being jealous of her going to visit old neighbors. He didn’t want Erich to have some female companion, not even for the convenience of a “beard”. Above all, he was aching for love, for someone to give it to…

Well, he *would* be giving it, he had promised his lover that. They might not dare to have many nights beyond tonight, but they would have tonight. After that he would decide how to balance his desire for Helen and his need for Erich, but Erich would understand. And Helen… Helen mustn’t know; it would break her heart. And Erich would understand _that_ too. After all, they weren’t degenerate, they both just needed love sometimes and friendship sometimes; it would be difficult but they would make it work…

“Stop it, stop it, you’re running ahead of things,” John told himself. “One thing at a time, one day at a time. “ Or night as the case might be…

About 10 minutes had passed; the meeting would be ending soon. Erich would be back shortly. John yawned and stretched out, waiting…


	4. Encounter

_John heard the hand on the door. He got up from the sofa, finding himself rushing to it as the door opened._

_“Well?”_

_Erich rubbed his nose as if he had an itch. “Mission accomplished. Joe Blake got his money.”_

_“Well-done, as always, Sturmbahnführer…” The two men nodded professionally, then looked at each other._

_And then his arms were around Erich, his lips fastening on him, devouring... Erich’s hands were in John’s hair, dizzying, driving him crazy. They were embracing, falling to and rolling on the floor, grappling madly; they could not get enough._

_“Erich, I’m so glad you’ve come back to me. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”_

_Erich stroked his cheek. “Yes, I do… now. I would never have believed it; you were beyond my wildest dreams. Until tonight. Tonight, I knew.” He moaned, nuzzling and kissing his lover’s neck._

_They embraced some more, clinching tightly, breathing into each other, sucking, kissing, slamming against each other… Erich struggled onto his knees, lifting John up._

_“I’ve wanted you so long… but I want you the right way. Not on the floor, like animals, but in our bed, like true lovers.”_

_John let himself be led. They began undressing each other. Through force of habit, they folded the clothes… John realized he was looking for a hanger for Erich’s tunic, and Erich smoothed and folded John’s sportshirt. They looked at each other, then laughed._

_“Old soldiers never die… they just **fold** away,” John joked._

_“Grooooooaaan…”_

_And then they were in each other’s arms again. Erich stroked him so deftly… it both excited and soothed him. John traced his thumbs over Erich’s eyebrows._

_“I love being naked with you. I love it being just us… all the rest of the world goes away.”_

_Overcome, Erich slid his mouth over John’s nipples, stroked the line of hair between navel and penis. John gave himself over to the pleasure of it, the sheer joy of being caressed and his body adored by a companion-in-arms._

_Then, seized by inspiration and remembrance, John gently rolled Erich onto his back. “I want to adore you too…”_

_John paused. It had been awhile since he himself had been fellated. As the Reich normalized itself into American life, and the procreative function of sex overshadowed other aspects… well, he couldn’t speak for other couples, but certain aspects of his own love life definitely faltered._

_It went without saying he’d never been the giver of this act before. What should he do, just pretend like he were Helen, and like Erich was himself? Logical… but the sense of it was weirdly off-kilter._

_He felt gentle fingers playing in his curls. “Are you sure, John? I know you’ve never done this… would you like me to go down on you first, love?”_

_“No. I want to adore you. To give you the attention you deserve…”_

_Erich relaxed in the bed, gently massaging John’s shoulders as John kissed him up and down the shaft. John cupped his lover carefully, spending time to feel and enjoy him. He watched him, observing Erich harden and moan. Tentatively he put the head in his mouth. Enthusiasm overtook him and Erich yelped a bit as John’s teeth scraped…_

_“Sorry,” he apologized._

_“A **little** rough play never hurt anyone… in moderation.”_

_“Pay me back when it’s your turn. Make me raw, if you want. Whatever makes you happy…”_

_“Ohhh, I won’t hurt you, dear one. I’ll love and protect you…” he stroked John’s cheek._

_As you always have, thought John, deeply grateful for this man. He lavished that gratitude on Erich’s member. It was awkward to him; he felt he was drooling messily over Erich as he pulled on him with his mouth. But his friend and lover remained aroused, hardening underneath his stroking tongue. He did not forget to fondle his sack, making Erich writhe…_

_His own cock was stirring now; with one arm around Erich’s waist, and one hand squeezing his balls, he could only rub madly against the sheets for a little relief. He wanted Erich to come. He fought a natural gag reflex to accommodate the thickening penis, but oh, he was happy to. To see him in such throes… it was exciting in a way John could never have imagined, to take someone out of themselves, take him into ecstasy…_

_The pre-come hit first - a slick shock. Previous experience told him that the proper thing would be to let go and… spit nicely into a hanky or something? No, not that! Fuck propriety! What had propriety got them? He wanted all of this man, to swallow him whole… well, as much as his virgin mouth could manage…_

_Then the surges of cum, salty and warm; coming in a rhythm that John guessed from his own maleness. He tightened his lips, as close to the base as he could, making Erich cry out. Then a final spurt, which he strugglingly, gratefully swallowed. Erich shuddered against the mattress, completely spent. **Le petit mort.**_

_John looked up as he let the penis slide out of his mouth. The peace and completion on Erich’s face. John reached up a hand to stroke his neck and cheek. He moved up on Erich, wanting to kiss that loving face, so oddly still after the strength of their passion…_

Bam! John moved wrong and fell off the bed, smack on his face. He got up, embarrassed, rubbing his nose gingerly. He looked around… and saw that there was no bed at all.

He had slipped off the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Petit Mort = orgasm, particularly of the fainting/feeling weak variety; literally, "The Little Death."


	5. Potato Chips

Helen woke up with a start. It took her a moment to realize what happened. She’d been laying about in her bathrobe and a hair turban, eating potato chips and reading. She’d fallen asleep and the book had fallen, throwing the potato chip bowl in her face. She looked about, embarrassed, cleaning up the mess and wiping potato chip crumbs off her nose…

She set the book on the table. “Venusberg, USA” said the polychrome cover of a paperback. A tall blonde with what looked like DDD cups was being embraced (pinned?) against a rock by some leather-clad hero with Popeye arms. What sort of trash was she been reading these days, anyhow?

Helen looked at her terry bathrobe, and the pulpy novel, and the empty apartment which was notably devoid of her _own_ leather-clad hero. Her John; he tried so hard. He gave her whatever she wanted; took care of the girls when she didn’t; tried to love her and make things like they were before. Yet she hid in the bottle, and put him off at every turn.

She tossed the dime-store romance and junk food in the trash. Then she went to her boudoir and changed the terrycloth for a slinky teal satin number that brought out the blue in her eyes. She dabbed on her new perfume, “Love and Lindens.” She did not know if, or when, John would come home. She did not care if he had been with someone or not. (Though in all their married life, he had never give her worry about even the tiniest whiff of infidelity.) Whenever and however he came back, she would be ready for him, if he wanted her.


	6. Grief

John picked himself up and sat in one of the living room chairs, shivering. On a Victorian chair, he noticed a white and blue afghan – undoubtedly something Mrs. Raeder had crocheted – and wrapped it about him. These little bits of Iowa, washed ashore in New York City, homey notes out of time and out of style with Erich’s attempt to match the modern décor that the Reich promoted.

Slowly, John dragged himself into the kitchen, looking at the clock on the oven. 11:47. John slumped to the floor, staring glassy-eyed at the clock. He watched the numbers turn over.

11:54. Realization washed in on him. Erich was not coming home. John folded in on himself and started to shake as he fought not to cry. He mustn’t cry; crying never helped anything. He was Erich’s CO; he needed to be responsible. Something must be done… nothing in his job title cared about grief.

Grief didn’t give a damn what his job title was. His body shook anyway; tears started anyway. Great, gulping sobs took over, and he was racked with guilt and scalding tears…

At last, he was cried out. He got up, mopping his face with a handkerchief, and feeling very weak. Respectfully, he undid the afghan and folded it, giving it a kiss as he put it back on the chair, exactly as it had been. He emptied his beer can and rinsed it, put it in the kitchen trash, then took the kitchen trash bag and dumped it down the incinerator chute, putting a new trash bag in the wastebasket. He looked around to make sure everything was in order in the living room and kitchen.

He looked out the window at the park. Somewhere down there, the Bethesda fountain still bubbled away; the angel had been replaced by a Teutonic warrior with a sword, but the fountain and the name remained. Somewhere down there, lovers, or tourists, or both, sat in hansom cabs, taking an evening spin. It would be the last time he looked on the Park from this particular vantage point.

When he got back to the apartment, he would call Captain Klemm, the only other person who knew about Erich’s mission. He would say that Erich had not checked in with him, and ask Klemm if he’d gotten a call. Then Klemm would say no, and be very concerned, and then he would be very concerned, and he would tell Klemm he knew what to do. And Klemm would go over the protocol, because Klemm was the kind of bright young man who liked to be sure and to show off that he liked to be sure, and then Klemm would mention the last resort of checking hospitals and morgues. And he would cry inside and never show it.

And Helen would… well, he no longer knew what Helen would do. He could only do what he’d been trying to do, and bring about normalization. He wanted her and dreaded losing her. He’d always been utterly faithful to her until now, and surely this peccadillo had been so fleeting; so thinly consummated; so off-track and abnormal; that it hardly mattered?

John sunk his head in his hands. It _had_ mattered. No one must ever know, but it had mattered.

He looked around the apartment one last time, and turned out the lights. He reached in his pocket and felt the spare key. He crossed the room; one more thing down the incinerator chute. Then he locked the door from the inside, and returned to the penthouse.


End file.
